Five times Hamish was sick and one time someone else was
by Aurora-swan
Summary: Pretty much what the title says. Begins at Hamish's birth and will continue with moments in their lives when he goes through child sicknesses and other things. The last one will not yet be revealed. NOT MPREG! Sickfic. Parentlock. Johnlock. Rated M for now but it might change. 5 plus 1 fic.
1. The teeny trooper

**THis will be a 5+1 fic. Five times Hamish was sick and one time someone else was. Hope you'll enjoy**

* * *

The phone rang three in the afternoon and Sherlock opened his eyes after the short rest. The room was empty, only him sprawled out on the sofa and the phone vibrating eagerly on the coffee table John was nowhere to be seen. Work then, Sherlock remembered slowly and blinked a couple of times to get rid of the thick wail that bothered his sight. With a loud sigh he reached out for the phone and looked at the name blinking away on the big screen.

Lynn Sawyer. Their seven months pregnant surrogate that they had carefully picket out amongst ten other women that needed money for education or simple survival. It was an awful thing the whole business in both Sherlock and John's mind, but also the only way to go to get a child of their own, and after all the girl they chose would be set for life after their payments. The detective didn't know if this was a good deed or not.

He answered the phone and brought it to his ear, expecting the weekly update of the so called 'Bump', the most discussed topic amongst friends and relatives and also the most exciting thing going on in Sherlock's life at the moment. But this wasn't an update.

"Yes." he murmured and cleared his throat that craved a cup of hot tea.

"Sherlock Holmes?" a male voice asked, by the sound of worry in his voice it sounded like someone close to Lynn, a brother perhaps.

"Speaking." he answered with a deep frown before sitting up in the sofa, already feeling his stomach tightened. With a quaking breath the man on the other side fought bravely to keep back the sobs.

"Lynn's at the hospital. Something happened." The detective was quickly on his feet, stepped into his shoes and never bothered to tie them before slipping into his coat. "The think the um... I don't know. Something tore and she was bleeding. She was rushed to emergency ce-ces... c-section." He took two steps a time down the stairs, not even thinking about his pyjamas or bed head. His son or daughter needed him, there were no time for modesty. "They..." the man continued. "They don't know if the baby will make it."

Sherlock hung up. He'd got the information he needed and he was obliged to forward it to John. He called as he hailed a cab and felt his heart pound behind his ribs, it was beating for his child and right now he'd never been so scared. How could something that yet never had a chance to exist have such a great impact on a grown man? There was no logic, no simple explanation to this and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

"You never call." a known voice chuckled on the other side. "You always text."

"Lynn's having an emergency c-section." Sherlock breathed heavily and rubbed a hand across his chest, almost feeling the pain these news caused his husband. John would take this harder than him, and Sherlock was taking this pretty hard. He heard the chair being ruffly pulled out from his husband's desk and the rattling keys and tapping on the computer. "I'm on my way there right now. Shall we meet at the reception?"

"Yeah.." John gulped. "Yeah."

* * *

John was already there when he arrived, he hardly recognised him. He was a bundle of tensed muscles, burning on the inside with fright and sorrow and light about to go out in his dark blue eyes. The sunburn had left him months ago but right now he was as pale as a living man could be. Sherlock gathered him in his arms and held him tight, chests heaving against each other and heart beating in sync like their bodies connected.

"Who called?" was the first thing John asked as his rough hands gripped Sherlock's messy curls. "What did they say?" Sherlock shook his head, he didn't want to be the one giving John the information, he was bad at this, bad at handling people.

"Something ripped." he answered with a low voice, just hoping that those words was the right one. His husband nodded and buried his face to the nape of his long neck, took a deep breath of the dark scent that only Sherlock carried and was blessed with. "Haven't anyone talked to you?" With a deep breath he shook his head and the detective carded a hand through his short hair.

"They can't give out any information yet. They don't know."

After what seemed like hours they parted and the doctor blinked like the world around him would fade and reality would creep back, like this wasn't real. Every breath taste foul his Sherlock's mouth, the air was full of disinfectant, plastic, detergent, paper, perfumes, ink, the list could go on forever if he wanted to, everything was so easy to notice when he was under stress and colours in the waiting room blurred together.

"Sherlock?" John sighed and let his head fall forward until his forehead rested on Sherlock's collarbone. "I'm scared."

They both new that one of John's deepest desires was to once in his life become a father, to have a little son or daughter to raise into a good human being. The world needed more of those. As years passed that dreamed seem to slip away from him, further and further until he would never reach it again. Things just always seemed to get in the way and slowly he'd started to accept that maybe it wasn't written in the stars. Girl after girl left him, man after man. The day he came to the acceptance that he would never become a father was the day he hadn't felt love for five years. Maybe he just was unlovable. Then he'd met Stamford that day in the park. Stars rearranged.

Talking Sherlock into having a baby had been surprisingly easy. Four years of a steady relationship, marriage, shared bank accounts and undying friendship the longing for a child started to grow once more and even if he was old he'd popped the question. Sherlock had said yes. John asked the same question two weeks later, just to be sure that Sherlock's decision wasn't a hasty one. The answer hadn't changed. The third time Sherlock had cursed and picked up the laptop, joined him on the sofa and opened several tabs. Suddenly they were looking for a surrogate mother.

And now they were here. Frightfully close to becoming parents. Or giving up. John didn't want to do this again.

Then a nurse stepped out of the big doors, dressed in white and looking like an angel with her blond locks draping over her shoulders. Sherlock could read worry, but not the news of death.

"Mr and doctor Watson-Holmes?" she asked with a soft voice and John lifted his heavy head from Sherlock's heaving chest, not daring to open his eyes just yet. "I'm here to inform you that the operation went well. Ms Sawyer will recover quickly and..." There was a short pause, painful and awful that tightened the iron claw around the couple's hearts and John opened his eyes to look up at the nurse. "You two are the parents of a little boy." Legs went out under the man and Sherlock caught him before he hit the floor, gathered him in his arms and held him tight. "He's a fighter, screamed loudly and kicked away. He'll just need some help breathing for the next two weeks or so and then he'll be ready to come home with you."

John cried. He didn't care who heard him or saw his reddened face. He just cried. These were tears that hadn't fallen before. He was used to tears, he'd shared them many times in his life until they'd suddenly stopped. Today was the first time he cried since Sherlock came back. Maybe it was the same tears. Relief, love, happiness. It felt good. Needed. And Sherlock's arms gave him just the support he needed right now. He was a father, they both were. They had a son, and even if he was teeny, too teeny, he still existed. John felt complete, like a puzzle that just had gotten it's last piece placed.

"John." Sherlock murmured with his perfect lips pressed to his temple. His voice was filled with hope and joy, not characteristic to the detective John had married but none the less unwelcome. "We've got a son." John bursted into manic laughter and nodded fanatically.

"About fucking time." he grinned and looked up at his husband, saw the tears clinging to his dark, long lashes and eyes glittering with an emotion Sherlock never felt before, he couldn't name it either, but it felt good.

* * *

The ward was warm and full of incubators. The light was dim and spread its yellow shine over the flailing, pink infants that missioned to grow, get healthy and strong. It was a new sight for the detective, he couldn't believe that all those little humans would one day grow up, be set free in the world and then bother him like everyone else. This ward was filled with fighting lives, struggling to become someone, to have their clean minds filled and bodies developed. He clung convulsively to John's hand, brushed his thump back and forth over his skin as they followed the nurse to the end of the room.

This moment would never be forgotten. In that incubator, amongst those blue and white blankets, beneath those tubes and IV's was their little, pink son. A hat pulled over his ears and a tape stuck to his little face to keep the tube to his nose and mouth in place, one for air, one for formula. He was so small, not bigger than Sherlock's hand and the teeny sparse toes attached to his feet wiggled in the warm air, showing how much life there was in him.

"Oh..." John gasped and pressed a hand to the warm plastic, tears falling freely down his cheeks. "Look at you." Sherlock smiled, not knowing what else to do. All he wanted to do was touch him, open those little windows to stick his hand in and rub a finger over that little hand that grabbed into one of the tubes.

"That's the smallest human I've ever seen." Sherlock murmured impressively and leaned forward to get a better look of his son. With a small chuckle he pressed his fingers to the glass. "Hello handsome. You're quite the fighter, aren't you?" Their little boy made a small sound that was choked by the respirator and squeezed and relaxed his hand just like he was waving and John giggled happily, waved back and felt like an idiot. It was merely a reflex but John saw it as a greeting. Their son's first hello.

"We've got something for him." the nurse smiled and put on a pair of white gloves. "All our prematures gets a little present." The reached into a small box and fished out a little green squid with two big, round eyes. "It's an experiment we're doing. The babies misses their cord so they hold on the the tubes, pulling and squeezing. So they're all getting a little squid now." She put her hand in, bent their little son's hand away from the tube and brought the little fists over to one of the eight arms on the squid. He latched on quickly, holding it tight and let out a small sigh.

It was beautiful. Their son was only a couple of minutes old and already doing an experiment of his own. Sherlock smiled proudly. What a perfect beginning. His husband sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"He's wonderful." he beamed and brought Sherlock's hand up to his face, kissed it dearly without looking away from the little baby. "He's truly amazing."

"He's perfect." Sherlock agreed, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. The need for a child had never been there until John had brought it up. The decision had been simple, almost obvious. The first time John asked him Sherlock had asked himself something else. 'Why not?' He had a legacy to pass down. He looked at his son, the cleanest mind in the world ready to be filled what whatever John and Sherlock wanted. This little boy would become something astonishing. Something amazing. Something beautiful.

He turned to John, smiled wide and true and not knowing what to say, if there was anything that needed to be said. He brought his husband to his side and placed his head upon his, rested there for a moment as he took his all in and John chuckled happily.

"We've got him." he cried with his hand pressed to the glass, stroking his thumb back and forth as he imagined how soft his son's skin must be under his touch. "How I've waited." Their son fidgeted on his thin mattress and made a soft sound, both his hands grabbing onto the squid and his little feet kicking in the air. He sighed and looked up at the nurse who at the moment made herself busy by checkin vitals. "When can we um... make contact? Touch him. Hold him." He wanted nothing more than just that but he knew it would take time.

"In a week he wont be in the risk for infections anymore." she informed them. "Then you'll be able to touch him and if he's strong enough we might be able to disconnect the respirator. Maybe, just maybe you'll be able to hold him then. But for now we'll have to wait." John nodded, this wait would kill him and this week would be sufferable. But he could do it, for his son. The nurse picked up the chart and looked it though quickly while Sherlock for the first time reached out and touched the glass, feeling the warmth and longing to be able to touch him. "Is there a name to add?" They both looked up from the little boy when they heard the question and stared at the nurse who'd made herself ready with ready with a pen. "So we know what to call him."

John opened his mouth but not a word left him. The hadn't planned any names yet, not even discussed it. He hadn't even had any in mind.

"Hamish." Sherlock said and John jerked where he stood, turned to his husband with teared eyes and a shocked expression. "Let's call him Hamish." He didn't know were the urge came from, but no name seemed more fitting than John's middle name. Family was one had in the end after all, why not cary n the legacy of names then. Hamish was also a name one could carry with pride, just like they would carry him with pride.

All John could do was nod as new tears and sobs forced their way out and once again Sherlock gathered him in his arms, kissed the top of his head and sighed happily. He might now know exactly what was going on inside his blogger but he knew that the joy he was feeling was as big it was ever going to get and Sherlock had to agree. The pride he was feeling right now beat every case and mystery he'd ever solved. This was his proudest hour.

* * *

Baby Hamish fought for his life like a brave little trooper. John visited every day before at after work, just standing by the warm incubator with his hand caressing the glass while his son pulled the arms on the little squid, kicking his feet and squirming in his blanket. Even if he couldn't touch him yet he felt close and connected to this little soul. He had high hopes for him, but then the thought of that he might loose his son was a thought he never turned to.

Sherlock turned up once and a while when his mind let him go. He would join John's side with not as much as a word, never being noticed as he slipped into the ward and sat down beside his husband. This had happened three days of seven, but John didn't blame him. Seeing something so small and fragile fighting for his life was hard, maybe Sherlock avoided it as much as he could.

It wasn't until later that John found out that Sherlock had actually been there every day on his own while he was at work. That would always bring a smile to John's lips.

Days seven was the day Hamish would be disconnected from the respirator and tubes. Both of them took a free day and arrived at the hospital together, none of them was gonna miss this. There was no discussion of who was going to hold him first, it was naturally John who was having him in his arms first and Sherlock just shook his head when John tried to protest. He was the one who'd waited the longest, Sherlock could hold on a bit longer.

They sat together in a room painted in soft colours, drapes closing out the bright light of the sun and a big sofa standing by the wall. Sherlock pulled John down beside him and grasped his hand. The anticipation was going through the roof, they couldn't believe that today would be the day when they would be able to touch their son. John had this morning showered three times, anything to take himself out of the risk of infecting the small infant that soon would be resting in his arms. They were covered in disinfectant and Sherlock's curls were messy since he couldn't use his oils to sort them out. No perfumes were allowed on this ward and right now they smelled more of themselves than anything else, no aftershaves, no deodorants, nothing what so ever.

All they needed to do now was wait. Sherlock squeezed his hand occasionally, just to remind him that he was there and John turned to him with an uncertain smile before falling into his embrace.

"D'you think he'll have your curls or my waves?" he asked suddenly while resting his head on the bony shoulder.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock murmured and kissed his temple. "I don't care whose DNA he has, he's ours." That made John smile, whoever this child belonged to genetically he was all theirs. Then at last the door opened and the nurse from yesterday entered while pushing the incubator in front o her.

"Good morning." she sang happily and John straightened himself in the sofa, wiped his already clean hands on his trousers and sighed nervously. "Ready to hold the little poppet?"

More than ready, was John's thought and he nodded happily and held back the tears that wanted to fall. The glass container where there son had lived for a week now was finally opened and she reached down to unplug all the tubes. With a small cry the little boy made his first real sound and John felt his heart clench of desire to hold him. The bundle left the soft mattress as the woman lifted him up and he wailed in protest as the warmth left him. "Here we go." she smiled and hurried across the floor to place the little one in John's waiting arms. The bundle seemed to just fit in his embrace, his weight was just what his muscles needed and and the warmth was just perfect to ease his hurting heart.

"Hello." he smiled while his son cried in sheer panic, face bundled up and red as the screams just welled out of him and John caressed his little cheek with his finger. "There you are." Finally he could touch his son's soft skin and he took his little hand as tears fell. The cries started to calm and turned into soft grunts, Sherlock had never seen something so pretty. He reached out and grabbed the little foot that'd slipped out of the blanket and he felt the soft skin.

"He's beautiful." he chirped and pressed a small kiss to John's temple. "I think he's got your nose." John saw that too and broke down into a mess of tears and snot. That was indeed his nose and he bowed his head to kiss it. He smelled good, not at all like hospital or chemicals, just like baby. Hamish was a beautiful creature in every way.

John sighed loudly and looked up at Sherlock who quickly wiped his wet eyes, even he couldn't hold back the tears and John leaned forward.

"Take him." he whispered. His husband didn't protest, he gathered the small boy in his arms and held him close to his chest. The smile that formed on his lips nearly hurt his cheeks and he stroke the tip of his fingers over Hamish's features.

"Well, you're rather tiny, aren't you?" he questioned happily and let out a big breath. "I'm surprised to say the least." John sniffled and smothered a hand over the little blue cap, carefully peeling it off and they saw the dark hair from Lynn, nearly the same shade as Sherlock's and the detective beamed when he saw it. There would be some resemblance between them after all, maybe he would even get her curls. "He's quite something."

"He is, isn't he." John chuckled and wiped his tears. "I can hardly believe he's coming home with us soon. Can you imagine?" Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip and twinned some of the silky strands of hair, sighed once more before glancing at John.

"He's gonna be a handful." he chuckled.

"I wouldn't call that a problem." John giggled and took the little hand again, kissed it carefully before sniffing the soft hair. This child could scream, throw tantrums, kick and protest all he wanted and John wouldn't care. As long as he existed nothing about him would ever bother him.

* * *

**So this is the first chapter! Five more to come! Tell me what you think by leaving a review and I'll be so grateful. **


	2. It's cured with magic

**Still no glasses, so excuse me if there are any misspellings or larger errors.**

**Anyway, a three-year-old Hamish takes a tumble and hits his head pretty badly. It's cured with 'magic'**

* * *

The small boy ran around the flat, laughing and shrieking in utter joy and Sherlock would never understand how _nothing _could make him so happy. That boy was never in a bad mood, never cried without a reasonable reason, had a great acceptance for rules even if he wasn't older than three. The detective was surprised how easy parenthood could be. Maybe it was their raising that had made it so or maybe they should just consider themselves lucky to have such a good son that listened.

The dark, wavy hair was wet and strands divided on the boy's head after the bath as he flew by with the wooden plane that John had bought him after the mysterious interest for aircrafts, none of them knew where he'd gotten the idea from. The plane flew through the air while Hamish made the sounds of engines and Sherlock smiled as he kept an eye on him while looking through police reports. Today was was the third day in Hamish's life that they were alone together. It wasn't often that Sherlock took him since work always came in between and secretly so he didn't enjoy having that responsibility, it scared him a bit but he knew he had to learn and as months passed it got easier.

"Daddy!?" a little voice shouted eagerly and hurried across the floor. "Look!" He showed him the wooden plane that he'd seen a thousand times before but always had to look impressed about.

"Oh my, look at that." Sherlock grinned and gathered the boy in his arms, put his down on his lap and joined his little hand on the plane, swayed it back and forth a bit while looking at the fading colours. "Where is the plane going, handsome?"

"Granny!" his son giggled and squirmed in his arms, ready to be put down again so the journey could continue through the flat. "Where's papa?" The detective turned back to the laptop and opened a new tab to look for something interesting on the new-site.

"Papa's working." he answered and heard how his son continued with is game just as he found something interesting. A simple mystery, easily solved by just some rearrangements that might just free someone who'd been arrested while being innocent. His head sunk into all the deductions and whatever was going on in the flat was quickly forgotten.

It wasn't until a loud crash was heard that Sherlock jerked upright in the chair looking out over the empty room. The awful noise was soon followed by a small cry and Sherlock flew up from the chair with his stomach turning in worry when he heard where the sound came from. He hurried out to the landing and looked down the steep stairs to see the little boy laying crumpled on the first landing, crying outright with the wooden plane cracked beside him.

"Oh god!" Sherlock quaked and hurried down the stairs to pick him up from the hard floor expecting the worst. "Hamish! What happened?" He knew exactly what had happened, the journey to granny wasn't as much a game as a real visit and Sherlock swallowed as he gathered the shaking, screaming boy in his arms. The small arms wrapped around his neck and Hamish buried his face to his shoulder. "Are you alright? Where does it hurt?"

"My head!" Hamish screamed and Sherlock fell down on the last step, just holding him and feeling the guilt grow. He carded a hand through his hair, parting his wet hair to see if he found any bruises or wounds when Hamish suddenly twitched and gave a painful shout. Sherlock's fingers had found something wet and swollen on the back of his head and as he pulled back he saw the blood on the tip of his slim finger. The guilt was quickly mixed with fear. Then he heard the quick steps in the stairs around the corner and Mrs Hudson turned up like a guardian angel in her purple dress. She saw the scared detective swaying back and forth with little Hamish tightly held in his arms and the drops of blood on the boy's light blue shirt and she grasped her heart.

"What happened?" she asked with a trembling voice that hardly overpowered the cries and screams coming from Hamish.

"He fell down the stairs." Sherlock sighed nervously and held Hamish's little head to his shoulder. "Call John. My phone's in my right pocket." The old woman didn't hesitate but fell to her knees fumbled in his pocket to get a hold of his phone while the detective panicked as his son started to go pale. This was not good. "Hamish?" he whispered with his voice on the brink of cracking. "What d'you feel? Are you dizzy?" There was no answer, only the loud sobs and cries and Sherlock rubbed his back while kissing his temple. "It'll be okay. Don't worry." He closed his eyes and wished he could take the pain away from his on, seeing his son in such agony was tore his insides and he didn't know what to do to help. In the background of all the screaming he heard Mrs Hudson speaking to John over the phone and Sherlock could only imagine the anger that man would come home with. John would never let Sherlock take care of Hamish on his own again.

"Papa's on his way, Hamish." Mrs Hudson comforted and rubbed his thin arm that was wrapped around the detective's neck. "I'll get you some ice." She hurried down the stairs and Sherlock was left alone with his little boy that still screamed in pain. Slowly he rocked back and forth while hushing him gently.

"I've got you, Hamish. Don't worry." he whispered and little by little the loud shouts faded, the cried and sobs silenced and soon they were nothing more than soft grunts mixed with hiccups. His shirt was now soaked with tears and mucus from both nose and mouth and the blood continued to tickle down the boy's neck and shirt. The wound had begun to swell and Sherlock feared a concussion. Maybe they needed a hospital.

"It hurts." he whined and sneaked a hand into Sherlock's curls, tugged them lightly as he pressed himself closer to his chest. "Take it away."

"Let's think about something else for a second." Sherlock murmured and hummed silently. "D'you remember what me and papa promised to get you this summer?" With a small grunt his son nodded and sniffled.

"A paddling pool." he mumbled and scooted his head a little closer to his father's neck. "A red one, to have in the backyard."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "A paddling pool. And we'll need to buy you some trunk to, huh? You've gotten so big your old one doesn't fit anymore. D'you want a pattern on them?" He nodded again and at the same moment Mrs Hudson snuck around the corner with a plaided kitchen towel stuffed with ice.

"Aeroplanes." Hamish answered while Sherlock reached out for the cold bundle, he laughed a little at the request before carefully placing the ice to the wound and Hamish flinched on his lap. "Ow! Don't do that!"

"It'll take away the bad pain." Sherlock whispered and rocked them again. "Just wait a second. Aeroplanes you said? Big, flying aeroplanes. That sound good. And then you can splash away all you want in that pool. And we can bring out all those toys you've got in the bathtub and the ones that you and papa brought to the beach that time, d'you remember those?" Hamish mumbled something incoherent and Sherlock leaned a little closer. "What?" The boy lifted his little head and sniffled as he looked up at Sherlock, giving his father a real fright when he saw the pupils in different sizes.

"I feel funny." he whined and a tinge of green mixed with that pale colour in his face and the detective felt his blood go cold.

"Mrs Hudson, get a bucket. Hurry." The old woman was put in motion again and Sherlock cupped his son's little face. "Deep breaths, handsome. And don't throw up on daddy, aim for the floor." Small whimpers left him and his head swayed back and forth as Sherlock tried to hold it in place with the ice still placed on the wound. "Look at me, Hamish. C'mon, look at daddy." Hamish's eyes flickered as they tried to focus and Sherlock bowed his head to get to his level.

"I feel really funny." he croaked and made a terrible sound that only meant one thing. Sherlock acted quickly and leaned his son over the floor to let the bile and earlier snack leave him without making any bigger mess. Horrible coughs and groaned tore through his throat and the detective pulled him back to his chest to let his rest his weary head.

"You'll be fine, love." he murmured into his hair. "Everything will be okay."

The front door bursted open and soon the quick steps from well known shoes and John appeared around the corner with snow in his hair and on his shoulders, eyes wide in panic and panting.

"What happened?" he asked even if Mrs Hudson already explained it over the phone. He fell to his knees beside them and saw the vomit next to them. "Jesus. Let me see." The hand was warm around Sherlock's wrist and he removed the blooded towel from the wound so John could have a look. The doctor pulled a face when he saw the swell and tutted worriedly.

"Oh, love." he sighed and put the ice back and then rubbed his son's neck. "Let's bring you upstairs so we can have a better look at that, okay."

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around the boy and stood up when Hamish cried out in pain. They climbed the stairs and the detective kept humming comforting words in his ear, listened to the tired grunts and sobbing hiccups. By John's orders he sat down on the sofa while he fetched the first aid kit and Hamish started to cry loudly again, Sherlock didn't know what to do anymore. The only thing on his mind at the moment was how devastated Hamish would be when he heard that his plane was broken.

"Tell me if you need to throw up again." Sherlock murmured into the dark hair.

"Now." Hamish whimpered and lifted his head, stared at him with half lidded eyes that flickered beneath his thick lashes. "Now." Sherlock flew up from the sofa, stepped over the table and ran to the kitchen, barely made it to the sink before Hamish vomited a second time without making a big mess.

"I feel really bad." a small voice whimpered as Sherlock put him down on the counter, the small fists holding on tight to his jacket. "Really bad."

"I know, handsome." he murmured and let his head fall to his chest. "Bur papa's here to make it better." In the blink of an eye John hurried cross the floor with the big green bag in his hands and dropped it on the counter when Hamish threw up in the sink a second time.

"Oh jesus." he groaned worriedly and cupped his cheek while Sherlock held him steady. "Let me have a look at you, love. Look into my eyes." Tears clung to his dark lashes and his dark blue eyes simmered in them. John looked at him sharply, examined his stare and saw the uneven pupils, nodded distinctively before opening his bag. "Okay, love. We're gonna take a little trip to the hospital, alright?" Sherlock felt all the blood leave his head at that point and his grip around Hamish tightened, he'd really done it this time. Somehow John must have sensed his worry, his husband rubbed his arm with a warm hand and gave a small but calming smile. "Nothing to worry about, just doing a quick checkup and then we'll be home before granny's made dinner, okay?" Those words made Sherlock's heart feel a little lighter, maybe the situation wasn't that bad after all. He hoped it wasn't.

* * *

The ride to the E&R seemed to take forever and John kept prodding the little boy as he was about to fall asleep in Sherlock's secure arms. Hamish twitched for each poke, hummed and groaned in deep pain from his wound that still had the cold ice pressed to it and pressed his cheek to Sherlock's chest as they talked to him. They kept asking him ridiculous questions that weirdly enough seemed hard to answer. His head pulsated and he stared at the plastic bag in John's hands, he just needed to blink if he needed to use it. A loud sigh left him and his eyes slipped closed.

The next time he opened them lights were shining bright around him and the smells of hospital were all around and he buried his face a little deeper into his father's shirt.

"Dad?" he croaked and then there was a horrible pinch in the back of his head that made him cry out in pain.

"It's okay! It's okay." his daddy murmured and he felt him squeeze his hand. "It's almost over."

"Stop it!" he cried and felt how his scalp tightened in some odd pressure that made him sick to his stomach all over again. "Daddy!"

"It's just the anaesthesia, handsome." Sherlock murmured. "It'll take the pain away. I promise."

Eventually the pain faded, but only in the wound, the rest of his head pulsated dangerously and the hands petting and stroking didn't do much to calm him. John looked up at his husband and saw the horrible guilt nesting in his wonderful features as the doctor stitched Hamish up. It was something that John hadn't seen in him in a long time, guilt was rare for Sherlock.

Four stitches were needed in the back of his head and Hamish cried silently thought the whole thing once the anaesthesia kicked in and took the worst pain away. He was cleaned up and plastered and then free to go home, just like John had promised him Sherlock hand't let him go since this started.

They grabbed their things in silence and John dressed his husband in the coat so he didn't have to let go of little Hamish whose sobs slowly lessened. John wrapped the little boy in the blanket and before they left the hospital they took a short trip passed the pharmacy to get some liquid paracetamol to mix with yoghurt or jam to ease their son's pain for the upcoming days. The store was a ten second walk and in the same building as the emergency and John went in on his own, leaving Sherlock outside while he browsed the shelves for everything they needed and more. It was a quick visit and with two small bags in his hands he stepped out of the store and found Sherlock out on the kerb, swaying back and forth to calm Hamish that was crying himself to sleep with a hard grip around his father's scarf.

"There we go." John chimed and looked at his husband who'd been awfully quiet since he found them on the stairs. He knew that the detective felt guilt after what'd happened, but at the moment John started to understand how much. The man was really blaming himself and dangerously so. If John didn't do something to fix this Sherlock might never allow himself to take care of Hamish again without fearing that something like this would happen once more. "Are you okay, love?" Sherlock sighed and stepped over to the side of the road to hail a cab, looking more sad than John had ever seen him before and he hurried to catch up. "Sherlock?" The detective turned to him, brows furrowed and adams apple bobbing by the nervous swallowing. The look on his face made the doctor's stomach tighten and he wrapped his hand quickly around his wrist. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." he whimpered with a small voice and cleared his throat before looking away. He couldn't meet John's eyes right now. "I should have noticed." John frowned.

"Noticed what?" he asked and rubbed his thumb back and forth over Sherlock's skin.

"This shouldn't have happened." he quaked and screwed his eyes shut before burying his nose in Hamish's dark hair, the boy seemed to have fallen asleep at last. "I am so sorry." The doctor shook his head and smiled comfortingly.  
"Sherlock. This wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was." Sherlock fumed and wrapped the blanket a little tighter around the sleeping boy. "For once when I take responsibility for him this happens. And you weren't even surprised when you came home."  
"Sherlock!" John yelled to interrupt his wherever this was going. "Shut up, okay. The reason I wasn't surprised is because these things happen. It might just as well been me looking after him." He stood up on his toes to press a kiss to his husband's cheek. "And I have to say that if our roles had been reversed today, I don't think I would have been able to care for him as well as you." Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

"There's no need to lie, John." he fumed. "You're a doctor. Things would have turned out much better?"

"Sherlock." John sighed and cupped his face. "Listen. I might be a doctor, but when I found you on the stairs with Hamish and saw how worried you were, that's all I needed to know how deeply you really care about him. You could never have taken care of the situation better than you did and that makes you a great father." The detective furrowed his brow and sighed loudly.

"D'you really think so?" he asked and leaned into John's wonderful touch.

"Of course I do!" John nearly shouted in the middle of the street. "Are you crazy? You're a great father, just look at him." He nodded at Hamish whose face was till swollen after the hours of crying and was now snoring lightly against Sherlock's shoulder. "He hasn't let go of you a single second since this happened, I think that means something. Don't you?" The detective gave a very shaky laugh that any second now could result in tears and John embraced them both and held them tight. "He loves you Sherlock. We both do. And none of us blames you. I promise you, we're both thankful for that you were there when this happened."

With a loud sigh Sherlock finally found relief, the guilt left him and he kissed his husband lovingly before looking up at him again.

"Thank you." he murmured and turned to Hamish that stirred in his arms. He pried an eye open and looked at them both in exhaustion.

"Hey." John whispered and rubbed his neck, kissed his chubby cheek and fingers. "How are you feeling, love?" The boy blinked and crawled a little closer to Sherlock who reassured his arms around him.

"Wanna go home." he squeaked and tugged his father's scarf.

"We are." Sherlock promised and swayed back and forth. "And we're gonna get you into bed and have a little sleep, and tomorrow we'll have pancakes for breakfast and spend all day on the sofa, watching movie and have some candy, just like when you had that fever. Sounds good?" Hamish blinked and watched them both a little, the concussion was making him very dizzy and things didn't really seem real around him.

"Yes." he sighed eventually. "The fishes."

"We can watch Finding Nemo." Sherlock answered with a soft smile. "Of course. Anything you want." He closed his eyes again and sighed loudly, making himself comfortable on Sherlock's shoulder before he slowly fell asleep again and the detective looked up at John to get some sort of proof of that what he'd just done was right. His doctor smiled lovingly and squeezed his arms with a warm hand before standing on his toes again and this time pressed his kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"Sound like a plan." he smiled and got back on the mission to hail a cab again.

* * *

The next morning started with a loud cry and Sherlock jolted in bed and forced his eyes open and was met by the beige roof. Another loud cry was heard from his his right and he turned his head and saw his little son squirm on the mattress with hit face about to be buried in the pillow.

"Hamish?" He wrapped his hands around the boy's wait and pulled him up on his chest to hold him as he cried. "It's okay, handsome. I've got you."

"My head!" Hamish cried violently and sobbed loudly to his chest. "My head!" As on cue John got out of bed with a loud groan and pulled the t-shirt over his head.

"I'm getting him some yoghurt." he sighed and padded out of the room. Yoghurt, the new codeword for medicine Sherlock figured and sat up on the bed, hushing the crying boy as he placed some pillows behind his back so he could lean back to the bed frame.

"It's okay, handsome. Papa's getting you some breakfast and that'll take away the pain, okay?" The little boy squirmed on his chest and grabbed on to a handful of curls, screamed in pain and the anger because of it and Sherlock kissed his temple. The doctor hurried back to the bedroom with a small bowl in his hand and a glass of water that he placed on Sherlock beside table before turning to Hamish. Carding a hand through his hair as far away from the wound as possible he kissed his cheek and took his little hand.

"Eat some breakfast, love. Just a little yoghurt and it'll feel better. I promise."

"I don't wanna!" Hamish cried and quickly regretted the shook of his head since it sent sparks of pain onto every part of his head, made his eyes pulse in pain and neck throb.

"Oh c'mon, love." John sang with a smiled and sat down on the edge. "It's magic yoghurt. It'll make you feel better." But the little boy wasn't ready to believe that, he bundled up his face and let out a long whine that hurt both his fathers and Sherlock curled around him.

"Daddy says there isn't magic!" Hamish yelled and buried his face even closer to Sherlock's neck.

"I know, handsome, but your papa's right. This is magic yoghurt. At it'll make the hurt disappear. I promise." With some loud hiccups the boy lifted his head and looked up at him with swollen eyes and quivering bottom lip. Slowly Sherlock turned him around on his lap so John could feed him the strawberry yoghurt. Hamish gave his papa a tired look and leaned back to Sherlock's chest, just planning to go with whatever they were doing since he was to tired to argue. His papa took the bowl and spooned up some of the pink yoghurt.

"Just a couple of spoons." he said and brought the first one to his mouth. "And then you'll feel better." Hamish opened his mouth and accepted the spoon while looking angrily at him, if this didn't work he was going to yell at him. He pulled a face when he felt the odd, gritty taste and gave a small whine.

"It's really yucky." he complained and swallowed reluctantly.

"It's because it's magic." Sherlock lied and rubbed his arm. "Magic things doesn't taste good." John gave him another spoon that he swallowed without letting it touch his tongue. "Good boy. It's not that bad, is it?"

"Yes it is." he complained but felt how his head started to go fuzzy, ever so slowly the pain started to fade. "But.. it's getting better."

"That's good." John smiled and brushed some of his hair away from his forehead. "Told you it was magic." Hamish gave him a little laugh in response and took the big hand that rested on his chest. "One more spoon and then we're done." He swallowed the rest of the foul goo and cleaned his mouth with the water. "Very good, love. D'you wanna sleep some more now or d'you wanna watch some movies?"

"Movies." he answered quickly reached out his short arms for John. "Take me there." His papa laughed and picked him up from Sherlock's lap, wrapped him in the blanket and held him tight. "And daddy promised candy." The detective laughed heartedly and got out of the bed with a wide smile on his lips.

"I believe I did." he smiled and wrapped the silky robe around his shoulders. "Is there any particular that comes to mind?" The boy though long and hard as they made their way out to the sitting room.

It was a nice autumn morning, sun was shining through the dirty windows and made soft rays in the dust flying around in the flat. The rooms smelled of detergent and Sherlock understood that mrs Hudson had cleaned whatever she could after Hamish's vomiting, he made a mental note to give her something in return.

"Butterscotch." Hamish said suddenly after John had made a nest for them on the sofa that wound make it comfortable for them all. "And popcorn."

"That sounds delicious." John smiled and carefully brought him down on the cushions, placed his pulsing head on the softest pillow he could find and draped the blanket over him. "Me and daddy will just make some tea and breakfast for ourselves and then we'll watch some movies, okay." Hamish blinked in response and gave him a crocked smile that mirrored a playful Sherlock. "Don't move to much, okay. Call us if you feel weird. Okay?" The boy's head sunk into the pillow as he relaxed and his little hands grabbed onto the blanket.

"Okay." he responded and closed his eyes meanwhile John and Sherlock leaved him for the kitchen.

"Strawberry flavoured, my arse." John muttered and picked up Hamish's medicine from the counter. "Just taste this." He popped up the cap and filled it to the line before reaching it out to Sherlock who at the moment filled two cups with boiling water. With a look that John only'd seen while he made experiments Sherlock reached out and took the little white cap containing the clear liquid, stared at it for a second before giving it a sniff. He brought it to his lips and swallowed it only to bundle up his face in a disgusted expression.

"That is ghastly." he croaked and tried to clear his throat. "Have the manufacturers even tasted strawberries?" John laughed and gave his shoulder a small kiss before dropping the teabags into the water.

"I doubt it." he smiled. "And you, my dear, are eating breakfast today. Even if I have to force it down your throat. I'm not letting you leave the flat until you've eaten a respectable portion of either cereals or porridge." The detective gave a annoyed groan and dropped sugar into his tea. "I'm serious, you ate nothing yesterday."  
"I had some toast."

"You had nothing yesterday more than a toast." John corrected himself firmly and turned to his husband with a very serious face but mixed with concerned love. "Please. If we're gonna learn our son a healthy way of living he needs you as a role model as well when it comes to eating. I will not stand for him not doing something because you don't." Sherlock chuckled and looked up from his cup, pressed a kiss to John's nose and sighed merrily.

"Alright." he smiled and took his cup. "Make it for me and I'll eat it."

"Porridge?" John asked and rubbed his waist.

"What ever floats your boat." Sherlock shrugged and took his cup to the sitting room to join little Hamish that laid flat on the sofa. "Hey, handsome."

"I wanna lie in you lap." the little boy squeaked in both pain and desired closeness. "Please."

"Of course." the detective smiled and put away the cup to lift the little head and the big pillow under it as carefully as he could and the boy flinched. "Careful now. No sudden movements." He sat down and placed the pillow in his lap, felt the heaviness of Hamish's upper body that now was levered and suddenly the little boy looked very pale with a small tinge of green. This could only mean one thing. "John! Get a bucket!" The sounds of cutlery falling to the floor came from the kitchen and how John messed around under the sink was soon followed by his hurried steps into the sitting room with the red bucket in his hand and not a moment to soon. Hamish dry heaved painfully over the bucket, made awful noised while Sherlock held him and soon the yoghurt left him together with the medicine and John sighed in disappointment. Now they needed to start over again.

"It's okay, handsome." Sherlock murmured as tears started to fall down those chubby cheeks again. "It's nothing to worry about." With one last heave the first cry forced its way up his throat and he was gathered in his daddy's arms again. "There we go." he whispered and wiped the tears. "Don't worry."

"My head!" he sobbed and pressed a hand to the temple that wasn't resting against Sherlock's chest. "It really hurts."

"I know." John pitied and rubbed his clammy forehead. "But don't worry, love. It'll be over soon."

"I want it to be over now!" Hamish cried angrily and gave a small cough. "I don't like it!"

"Of course you don't" Sherlock smiled sadly and cradled his head carefully so it wouldn't move or wobble around to much. "But I think it's time for some more magic."

"Not yoghurt." Hamish cried angrily and Sherlock giggled.

"No, not yoghurt." he agreed and rubbed his warm chest through the blanket. "Let's try a spell, okay? One that we both must say."

"Oh, this sounds thrilling." John smiled happily but couldn't avoid giving Sherlock a wondering look, which Sherlock quickly ignored.

"Are you ready, handsome?" he asked and the little boy only blinked in his arms, in to much pain to answer him properly. "Okay, we're gonna do some magic now that my mother did on me when I was your age. First, close your eyes." Hamish gave him a frown, John did too. "C'mon. It's not gonna work if you're looking." Reluctantly the little boy closed his eyes and sobbed silently in his arms. "Now, imagine the Watson's summer house. You know, where we spent our vacation." He did and saw the white house with tile roof, surrounded by tall trees and the little pond in the middle of the yard. "Can you see it?"

"Yes." he cried angrily.

"Good. Imagine you're there, walking through the garden, amongst all the flowers and now walk over to the green furnitures in the bungalow. Are you there."

"Yes." Hamish sobbed and started to get annoyed by all this, but the vibrations from his father's voice had its impact on him. It felt good, but he had no idea where this story was going.

"Very good. Now you'll have to do something really odd. Can you tell what shape your headache's got." He frowned, it only made the pain worse.

"What?"

"Imagine that your headache has a shape. What shape would it be?" He tired to feel it, tilted his head a little to the side to see if it had any edges or weird shapes.

"It's a pentagon." he complained, maybe it was that shape since he's learn last week what a pentagon really was or maybe it seemed very fitting on the pain.

"Imagine that you're holding that pentagon in your hands." Sherlock murmured. "It's a big pentagon, isn't it?"

"It's really heavy." Hamish complained angrily and saw the shape in his little hands while standing in the white bungalow with green furnitures.

"I know it is. Let's place it on the table, okay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now you need to do something very scary. You'll need to light it on fire." Hamish frowned again, already forgotten about the pain that it caused. "There's a matchbox in your pocket. Light it on fire."

Sherlock looked up at John who shook his head with a big smile on his lips, he couldn't believe that his husband was using placebo treatment, but he didn't dare to question him. After all it was, as he'd said, very intriguing.

"Is it burning?"  
"Yes." Hamish sobbed and squeezed John's hand, Sherlock rubbed his temple and wiped his tears away.

"That's good. Can you see how it's turning into black ashes?" Hamish only hummed in response and Sherlock hummed right back. "Now when the fire has stopped, blow it away. Blow all the ash away. Take a deep breath." He did. "And blow." The boy let out the breath in a long, loud blow until his lungs was out of air and when they were Sherlock rubbed his chest again. "Now, open your eyes." The dark blue eyes fluttered open, tears had stopped welling and the sobbing seemed to be over and he looked up at Sherlock with big eyes. "How does it feel?" It was odd to say the least, Hamish tilted his head a little and blinked a couple of times to test it and then he looked up at Sherlock again, almost scared.

"Better." he said sceptically and Sherlock chuckled.

"Magic." he murmured and Hamish stared. "What did I tell you?"

"Magic." he replied and gave a small laugh. "Cool."

"Yes." John agreed from where he sat on his knees. "Very cool."

* * *

**That little spell is something my granny used on me when I had a migraine as a child. Works every time :)**

**I would be more than happy if you'd leave a review :)**


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